Seasons of Rest Part 3
by Cameron Dial
Summary: Post "To BeNot to Be," Methos heads out to bring MacLeod back to Paris.


**_Seasons of Rest_**

**_Part Three_**

**_by_****_ Cameron Dial_**

Disclaimer: "Highlander" and its associated names, trademarks and characters are the property

of Davis/Panzer Productions, Inc., which reserves all copyrights. This story is

for entertainment purposes only. No monetary compensation is received by the author.

No copyright infringement is intended.

I know it's their sandbox. I just dropped by to play.

**Chapter Twenty-eight**

**September 1999**

        It was the first of September when MacLeod made harbor at Panama and hooked up with Katya. A week later he had Rainart settled in and felt reasonably good about leaving the boy. To ease the transition he left the kittens with Rainart, who was almost pitifully grateful for the gift. He promised fervently to take good care of them, and MacLeod couldn't help but picture them growing into fat and sassy house cats whose every whim was catered to. It was lonelier on board Absolution after that, without the boy and without the kittens, and by the time he'd reached the low-lying, thickly wooded Perlas Islands, he had added yet another regret to what was turning into a very long list indeed.

  
On his first night on the water in a week he left all sails up, heading northwesterly with the wind out of the northwest. He lashed the tiller slightly aweather and eased the mainsail. As the wind billowed in the sails, Absolution moved her bow into it. and the mainsail fluttered overhead. The jib and stay sail barely pulled, but it was enough to allow him headway. Then, at the rudder's command, Absolution fell off with sheets straining and a few ripples in the wake. Backing and filling, she made her way into the night, and further into the Pacific. 

        Somewhere in the wee hours he awakened to the raucous whipping of headsails, wind screeching in the rigging, and driving rain. Gunwale to the water, Absolution was flying into the night, her decks at an extreme angle. MacLeod lowered the mainsail and the boat righted; after a few uneasy moments he left the jib and stay sail up and went below again to sleep.   
  


Dawn found him west of Saboga, with a light wind bearing to northwest. He swung to a heading of southwest and crawled along a lee shore under the beam wind. For the rest of the day, he let Absolution steer herself under a lashed tiller with nothing untoward happening. The afternoon was calm, and he caught a yellowtail with hardly any effort at all; lunch was fried fish with strips of bacon, dished up with cornbread and washed down with coconut milk.   
  


A week later there was a stiffening wind from the northwest, kicking up the first white caps he'd seen in months. By the time the moon was up the wind was stronger still, and had hauled around to where it blew out of the west, stirring up a confused and angry sea. Scudding clouds flew in from over the horizon, dancing across the slivered moon, and Absolution acquired yet another tilt to her decks. He handed his way out of the sloping cabin onto wet decks; the lee rail was awash and Absolution was quivering lightly, her timbers creaking. The wind was definitely higher, and water surged beneath the boat, beginning to hiss and howl in a way that suggested worse to come. With few choices available, he lashed the tiller, hauled down everything but the jib and stay sail, and went below to bed about eight, figuring he'd be up every couple of hours anyway.   
  


As he stared into the darkness above his bunk, there was a constant rattle and clank of gear, the frantic to-and-fro washing of water in the bilge, and the absence of company to dwell on; for half a year now, every time he had settled down to sleep he'd had the cats curled somewhere within arm's reach, and for the past month he'd fallen asleep to the sound of Rainart's steady breathing not ten feet away from him. Tonight, though, there was only a terrifying whine accompanied by resounding crashes of thunder and the growling sea. It made an interesting lullaby.   
  


Toward midnight, he stumbled on deck, aware he was doubtless in a rising gale. The lightning flashed blue-white, reminding him of a quickening gone amuck, and a heavy, drenching rain was pouring down. The jib had bellied out to its full capabilities, and, since it was a old sail, he wasn't surprised to see it rip out of its fittings in the next instant. The decks tossed beneath him, and in the next flash of the lightning he was aware he was watching a sight that had played itself out endless times since the beginning: the hopeless match between man and nature, with boundless nature the inevitable victor. The jib shivered and at the same time a hank parted company at the luff. The sail's already frantic motion intensified as he watched, unable to prevent what he knew must come. The aged, fraying bolt rope snapped, followed immediately by a ripping sound. Before he could blink, the sail was ripped to tatters by the wind and its bits were whizzing astern overhead.   
  


The wind whipped the rain at him furiously, and the lightning had grown as intense as daylight, flashing as abruptly as house lights flipped carelessly on and off at a switch. One thing was sure, though--if he didn't get the stay sail reefed, he was going to lose it, too. He loosed the halyard, clinging tightly to it while he dropped the frantic stay sail low enough to get at the reef points. One by one, fumble-fingered, he tied in the unruly strings, swallowing what seemed half a dozen buckets of saltwater in the process. The sail itself was pounding wildly about his ears, the bow rearing and plunging like a wild horse the whole time. And since there was nothing to hold onto on the fore deck, he had to keep his feet however he could, and not always successfully at that.   
  


Back below, he ran a towel through his hair and plopped down on his bunk again, debating his course of action. He didn't have a storm sail but, he thought, he did have the makings of one. He cut a dozen small lengths of one-inch line and dragged out his spare stay sail, toting it up on deck. The short lines he bent loosely about the mast, attaching a clip to each of the make-shift rings. Struggling against the wind, he heaved the sail aloft with the main halyard. The new sail strained, rocking, but held, doing the work of a storm sail, and the Absolution reared up and out of the water somewhat less severely for his efforts. That done, MacLeod dropped and furled the stay sail before returning below again, the lightning throwing the night into brilliant confusion. There was only one more thing he could think of that might make a difference. Going forward, he retrieved his secondary, emergency anchor, and crawled with it to the safety of the cockpit. There, he hauled up the trail rope he'd attached to the Absolution's stern and secured the anchor before pitching it outboard. Even as he wondered if it would have any effect, he felt the anchor reach its depth, felt it begin to drag. In response, Absolution's bow swung smartly upwind and the pitching grew less pronounced. For a few minutes he remained in the cockpit, too weary to do anything more. Finally, he dragged himself back down to the cabin and fell asleep again.   
  


It was nearly dawn when he awoke again and lay blinking sleep out of his eyes. The wind had abated at least, though he could tell the seas were still running high. For the first time, his eyes fell on the Absolution's emergency radio gear and lingered there momentarily. He wasn't ready to acknowledge that he might be out of his depth quite yet, but reminding himself he had the radio made him feel a bit better about things--in a real emergency he could always switch on the automatic SOS beacon and broadcast a signal for help. Not now, of course, but it was there if he needed it. In the meantime . . . there had been a sort of knocking, he thought, and he was about to consign it to a half-remembered dream when a sledgehammer blow flung him abruptly to the floor. He jumped to his feet, stumbling before he could walk, and started for the hatchway. On deck, he could only watch as the Absolution swung dizzily about, and it occurred to him that he'd lost his spare anchor to the storm sometime during the night. From the crash that had driven him from his bed, he'd expected to find himself being thrown onto some sea-pounded shore, but there was no land in sight. In a moment the boat righted temporarily, and then another thump sent MacLeod sprawling again, face down and with a close up of the deck.   
  


He had expected to see the towering shadow of land leering up out of the sea; a rocky shore reaching for Absolution's vulnerable bottom and sides. Instead, when he'd made it to the rail and stood peering over, he saw what he at first took for the body of a mammoth whale, its tail stirring the waters off to the right. And on the other side another whale--smaller--churning lazily about. Dumbfounded, MacLeod could only stare. He'd heard of whales attacking small craft, of course--but that it should happen in the middle of a storm struck him as absurd beyond measure. It struck him, too, that it would take a mere sweep of the behemoth's tail to obliterate his boat . . . and then the outlines of the "tail" resolved, taking on a clearer shape, and he realized it wasn't the tail of a whale, but the limbs of a drifting tree. A tree the size of a California redwood, but a tree nonetheless, and nature had contrived somehow to put him on a collision course with it in the middle of the Pacific ocean.   
  


The tree's bole lay beneath the ocean surface, its limbs awash, body and limbs alike rising and falling with each wash of the sea. Grabbing his boat hook, Mac poled as far astern of the tree as he could, but for an exhausting two hours all he could do was try to keep the worst tangle of reaching branches from ensnaring him. Heavy rollers crashed down onto the forest giant, twisting it beneath the keel, exerting a shifting pressure against Absolution's timbers; she groaned deep in her parts and shuddered like a wounded man while MacLeod tried to fend off the tree as best he could. The overwashing waves were gradually shoving him astern, a direction he had no objection to so long as it eventually washed him free of the tree; only when a dozen such waves had pounded across Absolution's bows, though, did he begin to feel the boat inching its way over the full length of the massive tree. All he could do was ride out the storm, fully aware that the ocean-going redwood would have made five boats the size of Absolution, and wait to float free.   
  


By midmorning he was half dead on his feet, but once free of the tree's branches MacLeod hurried below and searched by light for water seepage or any hint of damage. He could see none, but something flashed silver in the bilge well, beneath the ladder, and he shoved his hand in, feeling something slippery. Fast-moving and full of life, the silvery something eluded him for several minutes until he clamped his hand as firmly onto it as he could, practically squirting it onto the floor boards. A small fish, fully two inches long and as big around as his thumb flailed on the deck. Thinking immediately of a leak somewhere in the hull, MacLeod forced himself up on deck one more time, this time to pump Absolution dry. At least, he thought, the rain had stopped. That done, he sank to a wet seat on the deck and found his eyes closing irresistibly as a pale sun blinked overhead. By the time he'd run the bilge dry, he had given up even pretending he would get to his feet in a moment and go back below. He curled up where he lay and fell asleep, awakening only when a wash of salt water slapped against his thigh, lapping back and forth across the decks.   
  


Groaning, he sat up, knuckling his eyes to wakefulness. It might have been ten minutes ago that he closed his eyes; it might have been hours--the sun was screened in clouds that had gone nearly black again, and there was no way for him really to be sure. As he sat watching, though, a determined trickle of water was flowing steadily into the bilge, and there was no way to avoid it. Stumbling to his feet, he made yet another search over the ribs and planks of the cabin, and then below the water line, finding nothing. Somewhere, though, the little ship had to have sprung a leak, deep down in her timbers, possibly somewhere along the keel and its adjoining strakes. He pumped the filling bilge dry and studied the horizon, frowning.   
  


From Perlas to the Galapagos there were 900 miles of ocean to cross, and he'd made less than a third of the distance. Well, he thought, at least he could be grateful he'd disembarked Rainart and the cats in Panama. If he was going down at sea--and it looked like he just might--at least he'd be the only one to suffer from his foolishness. He'd have to wait until the weather permitted, but the best thing he could do now was take an accurate sighting for his current location and head for the Galapagos, as planned.   
  


For some reason, he sputtered into laughter, unable to help himself. Six hundred miles, he thought. With a little luck, he just might make it, assuming he encountered no more floating redwoods along the way.   
  


**Chapter Twenty-nine**

**October 1999**

He was a month to the Galapagos, with Absolution limping all the way. Toward the end of the journey, even with strong winds astern, he had to pump the filling bilge dry several times both day and nigh. When sleep did, inevitably, overtake him, he would awake to the disturbing sight of the bilge overflowing; an inch or more of water seeping onto the floor boards and sending him back to the pump. Worse, still, his canned food storage was affected. According to his stores list, he had 85 cans of food stored beneath the starboard bunk. He'd become accustomed to whatever eclectic potluck offerings he'd come up with with no labels on the cans, though he remembered with amusement Rainart's disgusted look at being presented spinach, spinach, and tomato soup for lunch one day. Since Rainart's presence on board had cut into his storage, MacLeod had stocked up again in Panama, winding up with an even 100 cans, the newer ones all nearly labeled. It did, he had to admit, take some of the adventure out of meal preparation, though in its own way it made for a nice change.   
  


Digging cans--labeled and not--out of the storage locker one day, though, he came up with half a dozen large aluminum cans, all bulging from interior gasses. He'd known it was damp in the tight space beneath the bunk, of course, but he'd had no idea that the dampness would infiltrate into the cans. Disgusted and increasingly depressed, he dug them out one by one, examining each, swollen, seeping tin in turn. With the exception of the things he'd purchased in Panama--perhaps 20 or so cans--the whole storage had putrefied with fermented, soppy liquid. He had no choice but to dump the majority of his stores overboard and keep a careful eye on the rest. It meant, of course, increased diligence and hours fishing, as well, since he could no longer take food for granted.   
  


One day after manning the bilge pump a seemingly overlong time, MacLeod found that he had hardly gained on the rising water. And in the time it took him to peer below decks to double check, he appeared to have lost what little gain he thought he'd made in the first place. When the Galapagos was at last a smudge on the horizon he took to the pump and worked it at an aching pace, changing hands several times. Still the water gurgled in the bilge. When at last the pump hissed dryly, there were still long miles between him and the islands. "Work into the Galapagos from the east," old seahands had told him. "Don't get west of them. You'll never fight back against the trades and the current."   
  


So it was on a sunny afternoon that he stood atop the deckhouse between turns at the bilge pump, leaning against the mast and peering at last at the northern tip of Chatham Island on the eastern rim of the Galapagos group. The wind was holding at the south, but MacLeod's interest was taken up mainly with ascertaining his set to northward by the strong current sweeping up from southward. He watched the north tip of the island and stretched up on tiptoe when he saw it, as he suspected, shifting to the south of Absolution. He shifted the angle of the rudder, turning the bow to the south, and set himself for a broad reach that would stern him into sight of Seymour Island late at night and assure him of an early morning arrival assuming he didn't sink first. Bent over his task at the bilge pump, he passed Chatham before dusk, with considerable drift northward despite his best efforts.   
  


All through the night the flat air held, and the sea slapped and smacked along the bilges. He couldn't be sure of his speed, though his charts indicated two to three knots was normal; all night he played a guessing game of what his position might be and how long he'd been drifting. To the north somewhere, he knew, there were three small islands--Tower, Marchena, and Pinta--barren, waterless lumps of seared lava according to the charts, any one of them a fearful place to go aground. Deep into the night he stayed on deck, attending the bilge now and again, listening for the pounding of seas on rock face. The darkness was as thick as fog as the hours dragged past, and several times MacLeod thought he heard something. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he fitted Absolution's long, ungainly oars into their rowlocks on the gunwale, took his place in the cockpit, and waited, his stomach rolling.   
  


Because of her shallow draft and low tonnage, Absolution could be moved by oar when necessary. To say she was easily maneuverable was stretching it a piece, but he had little doubt under normal circumstances that he could manage it. The fact that normal circumstances didn't include a sinking ship was an issue he didn't care to go into. He listened, straining his ears to the north, and less than an hour later he heard the unmistakable crash of water breaking against solid cliffs. He manned the bilge pump one more time, pumping until his shoulders were in knots, and then threw himself into the oars in an agony of dead, still air. The first streaks of daylight were starting to show in the east and he forced himself to lean more heavily on the oars. Hard to starboard there was a ragged, towering shadow blocking out the stars that rode in the night sky. At the base of the shadow there was a rough, tossing gray surf, surging to and fro in time with his heartbeats.   
  


How long he pulled, he didn't know. There was a fire between his shoulder blades that nothing would dampen, and a fine trembling had begun in both arms and shoulders. His charts showed that he was approaching Marchena Island, cliff-bound and unfriendly. He was barely moving with the current, but as far as he could tell, all was clear ahead. A little to the north, not yet in view, would be Pinta Island, small and--according to the chart--easily avoided. As he drifted closer to shore he saw a pack of seals sporting in the water, enjoying the first rays of the sun. When they spotted him, they stopped, bright, round, intelligent eyes showing above the water as they stared at him, their shiny heads glistening, looking first like boulders bobbing above the waterline, then like ghosts as they dipped below it.   
  


Abruptly, he found he was moving at a quicker rate than before and he pushed down on the oars, lifting the paddles up and out of the water while his shoulders screamed in silent pain. He was midway across the island, and no longer in the lee of Marchena, but moving now toward what had to be Seymour Island. The full current had gripped Absolution, and was thrusting them landward as if in a race. To the southern tip of the island was an active volcano, just at the water's edge; it rose barely a hundred feet, above the water's edge with a broad column of thin smoke hanging in the air above its blunt summit and open mouth. Though he was well clear of the volcano, he could feel its heat--small wonder the seals clustered here, he thought suddenly: They'd found a natural hot springs for their swimming enjoyment, bordering on the ocean's cooler currents. Lowering the oars again, he forced himself to row faster, not looking up, until his arms cramped and refused to row any more.   
  


Looking up to gauge his progress, he realized he was less than a hundred yards offshore now. Seventy-five yards off on one side was a pockmarked wall of lava, to be avoided at all costs unless he wanted to while away the next century of so in the volcano's shadow, hoping for rescue. He pressed his muscles into service again, managing his task by will power as much as anything, since his arms, wrists, and hands had gone numb. He made his course southwesterly, to clear the threat of other northerly island groups and, when the wind picked up enough to allow him to abandon the oars altogether, he leaned back in the cockpit gratefully and pointed the bow toward Albemarle, the largest and westernmost island in the group.   
  


Halfway along the ledge he could make out the cold-looking bones of what appeared to be at least two, and possibly three, wrecked vessels sitting in a foot or two of water. Stark and lonely, the wrecks were awash and helpless, evidence of how easy it was go to amiss in these waters; he gave the whole cape healthy clearance and decided to continue further along the northwest shore and try for Tagus Cove, though it would take him another night to make the trip. In the meantime, though, the cabin was awash with water and he had to man the bilge pump yet again. As night closed in he made a dinner for himself of cold soup from one of the unspoiled cans still in the larder and put out his remaining anchor, pumping the bilge out one more time before sinking into sleep for a few hours. When he awoke several inches of water had covered the floorboards and he stumbled to the pumps, pulling until he could pull no more. Dawn found him at the bilge again, barely able to keep up with the water as it gurgled and poured in.   
  


Altering his course three points to port with the rising sun, he switched on Absolution's engine for the first time in a week and eased the boat toward shore. A bit later he was at the bow, dropping all sail and watching the approaching land intently. His attention was demanded again when the motor sputtered, coughed, and then died away to silence. Little wonder, he realized--the engine was covered by water. Well, at least it saved him the trouble of backing the engine off gradually for the beaching maneuver he had planned. It did, however, force him to leap back to the pump. He worked it fitfully, his nerves on edge, and, after another hour of steering mostly by guess, he swung into the strait between Narborough Island and Tagus Cove, fully expecting Absolution to dip her rail under and sink at any moment. Then, ever so lightly, moving a few inches at a time, the keel scraped bottom and Absolution began to steady, driving her bow into the sand. MacLeod dove into the water, coming up twenty feet from shore, and began hauling. When he reached the shore he could pull the boat in no further, but from the angle she'd assumed in the water he knew she was grounded. His legs shaking, MacLeod made his lines secure and sank wearily to the ground, remembering the last time he'd been in this predicament. Was it really less than three months ago, he wondered, that he'd run aground on the eastern shore of South America? God--you'd think he'd learn, wouldn't you? At least he'd had Puss and Boots for company then, though he recalled the cats had been less than happy with him over that little adventure.   
  


Ten minutes, he told himself. He would close his eyes for just ten minutes, and then he would go back to the Absolution, where he could at least sleep high and dry. More tired than he could remember ever being, he pushed up onto one trembling leg, stumbling to get the other beneath him. It was debatable, for a moment, whether or not the leg would hold him, but he stayed upright. He stared out at the Absolution for a long while before he waded through the shallows and somehow made it back on board. He took one look at the bilge, decided he was in no danger of sinking in the two feet of water lapping at the boat's sides, and collapsed gratefully on his bunk's mattress for a nap.   
  


He slept the rest of the day and all through the night, waking only with the morning light.   


**Chapter Thirty**

**October 1999**

Tagus Cove was an unusually snug protection--ideal, in fact, except that there were no means to do the hull work MacLeod needed to complete. Accordingly, a little more than three days after he'd deliberately gone aground--half of which he'd spent sleeping the clock around--he found himself once again in the water up to his waist at high tide. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon bailing and then running the bilge pump; that done, he now had to repeat essentially the same maneuver he'd completed back in March when he'd gone aground south of Rio and wound up beached high and dry. The only difference this time was that he'd deliberately beached himself. Oh, and there was the fact that his boat was leaking like a sieve, of course. In addition, after crossing one ocean and skirting the edges of another, Absolution's bottom had to be fouled with shellfish and in need of a good scraping. The best he could do at the moment, he'd realized after some thought, was to get Absolution afloat and make for Floreana island, a hundred miles or so away, but at least part of the Galapagos group. His charts showed the island having a sandy beach and a cove on the leeside that would give him protection from any foul weather; then, too, it was famous as the site of Post Office Bay, the old mailing station had been created to serve whaling ships in the latter half of the 19th century.   
  


All things considered, Floreana island seemed his best choice, and one he could likely make, as well. It was supposed to have fresh water--something he wasn't in real need of, but given the depleted state of his canned goods, he'd welcome the opportunity to stock up on any fresh fruits and vegetables from the surrounding jungle to replace his ruined canned goods as well. And if worse came to worse, he could use either his signal flags or emergency radio to hail any ship happening by to check the old mail drop. All things considered, there were worse places to be stranded, since any passer by might reasonably be able to offer him assistance.   
  


The first task was to get the Absolution back into the water where she belonged, and headed south and east. As before, he'd make use of his anchor, this time secured at the end of two ropes braided together for security; in addition, he attached a duffel bag he filled with rocks for added weight to compensate for the second anchor he'd lost at sea. Finally untying the slimed-over trailing rope he'd had attached to the stern for the length of his voyage, he let it drop into the cove and replaced it with a new nylon cable; as before, he attached the portable winch, which he used to pull everything taut. A little bit at a time, then, with the help of the tide, he inched Absolution back into deeper water where she could float free of the sand bar.   
  


A trip that should have taken a little over two days took three, and to what end? At full tide, well after dark, he was again marooned. He drew Absolution as close in on the shore as he could manage, her keel thumping on the steep, sandy floor and her bow pointing into the jungle like a lost soul. To see his boat once again beached high and dry, with as much water inside as out and another job of bailing in front of him was depressing to say the least. Still, at least he was in a location where the work could be done. He dutifully ran the bilge pumps until they sucked dry again, figuring he had a night in front of him to rest and prepare for the job the next day. Tonight, though, he gathered enough wood for a fire on the beach and sat staring out to sea, curling up around the fire to sleep around ten.   
MacLeod. Look up, MacLeod.   
  


He blinked, staring up at a night sky as extraordinary as he could ever recall seeing. With even the fire having died to embers, the stars had a brilliance and clarity never known to those who lived their entire lives in cities. Diamond-like, they sparkled from within, each a unique, separate entity. As a child he'd learned their names and their stories, though of course here the constellations were different. He blinked, remembering the sense of wonder, the sense of owning that had somehow come with the knowledge, passed down to him from his father. The night had ceased being something to be feared, and had become something known and mastered a little at a time. It was one of the things he would have liked to have passed on to Richie, though to be truthful he'd never really appreciated it. Richie had been strictly a city kid when MacLeod had first met him, and though he had traipsed after Mac into the wilderness when compelled to, he'd never really enjoyed it that much. Oh, an afternoon on the lake was fine, or fishing from the bridge, perhaps, but that was all he was up for. There had been one Christmas with Tessa on the island, when it had snowed; Mac remembered a snowball fight that had ended only when he'd pinned Richie on his back in the snow and rubbed a handful of the stuff into the boy's face, with Richie laughing and spitting the whole time.   
  


"People die, MacLeod," Methos had said. He remembered they'd been talking about Joe and Amanda, whom Liam O'Rourke had taken to force MacLeod's hand. "Immortals die," Methos had said, and Mac remembered the look on Methos' face in that moment, the look in the eyes in particular. And what had Methos seen in his face? MacLeod wondered. Surrender, perhaps? Or defeat? Something unlooked for, that had been clear.   
  


"Yeah," Mac remembered replying. "But not because of me. Not anymore."   
  


Been a rough couple of years, has it, MacLeod?   
  


Mac and Methos had both known they were no longer talking about Joe, or even Amanda in that moment. They'd been talking about Richie Ryan: Richie, who had died at MacLeod's hands. And they'd both known without question that MacLeod was ready to sacrifice himself to keep Joe and Amanda alive. Having failed Richie--having failed himself--he refused to fail Joe and Amanda.   
  


And yet, that was exactly what he'd done, wasn't it?   
  


What was it Fitzcairn had said to him? "You have places to go and friends who need you." Something like that. And yet . . . he'd walked away from those he loved so he could no longer be a source of danger to them, swearing at the same time that he would never again be a part of the Game. And how long had that lasted? Just until Juan Bartolo came hunting, of course. MacLeod sat up, wrapping his arms loosely around his knees. After four hundred years, you'd think he'd recognize the pattern, wouldn't you? After all, he'd done the same thing when Little Deer and her people were slaughtered, and when Slan Quince had forced him back into the game he'd left Tessa rather than see her threatened. Not that it had worked, of course. He remembered Connor bringing her to the island and the breathless rush of emotion that had hit him, depriving him of thought--not to mention oxygen--until she was in his arms and he was holding her again. "I love you," she'd said simply, and somehow that was all that had mattered. He'd blinked back tears, unable to speak, unable to deny that holding her, being with her, was all he wanted then or ever.   
  


Tessa had chosen their life together, even knowing the danger. And he had chosen their life together, even knowing he could lose her--would inevitably lose her--either to time or circumstance. And having lost her, he had gone on as he was intended to do, as he had a hundred times before.   
  


Methos was right, of course. Richie's death had been an accident, but that didn't make it any less painful. Then again, Mac thought, perhaps it wasn't supposed to.   
  


He stood and brushed sand from his jeans, covering the last embers of the fire. Almost a year ago, Warren Cochrane had come after him in Paris. Cochrane, who had killed his student, and whom MacLeod had sentenced, in Methos' words, to a life sentence with the knowledge of what he'd done, never to be forgotten or forgiven. There'd been no doubt that Cochrane was after MacLeod's head, and no doubt in MacLeod's mind that the man was justified. Methos, however, hadn't been concerned with justifications. He'd met Cochrane at the race track Richie had died at--Cochrane's choice--and MacLeod had arrived just in time for the coup de grace.   
  


He remembered looking up and seeing them at the top of the escalator, remembering inevitably that it was there, at the foot of that same escalator, that Richie had died. He remembered Methos swinging, his sword biting the air, forcing Cochrane to jump back, sucking in his stomach to avoid steel. Again and again Methos had advanced, Cochrane retreating as far as he could until the backs of his legs had abruptly encountered the guardrail separating the upper floor from the basement level. Cochrane had hit the concrete floor as Methos leaped from the balcony, knees bent to absorb the shock, free hand out to steady himself. Two steps had put Methos right behind Cochrane, who even then had been struggling to rise. Methos' next step brought his right foot down firmly on top of Cochrane's sword blade, pinning it to the floor as Cochrane struggled to his knees, and MacLeod had known immediately what was about to happen.   
  


"Methos!" he'd called, knowing that the ancient Immortal had heard him, had recognized his voice. The Ivanhoe never wavered, though. Joe had put an arm around his daughter's shoulders, but Amy had barely spared him a glance. Like MacLeod, she had read the movement in Methos' face.   
  


The old man's rise en pointe had looked effortless; absolutely graceful. Methos had stretched himself ever so slightly on his toes, his upraised arms stretched simultaneously outward and up. The downstroke had been abrupt by comparison, the sword cutting audibly through the air before it connected with flesh and bone. There'd been a sick, dull thud as the head fell and Cochrane's body toppled forward.   
  


And as the energy of the quickening had begun to gather MacLeod had turned and strode up the ramp, disappearing without so much as a glance back at any of them.   
  


It had been unfair, of course, to treat the old man like that. There'd never been a question of forgiving MacLeod his behavior, though--Methos had understood, perhaps even expected things to play out as they had, and the next day he'd come looking for MacLeod, just as Mac had known he would. He'd found him around sunset, on one of Paris' many bridges, and they'd sat together, speaking of inconsequentials at first, working up, Mac supposed, to what needed to be said. 

"I killed Richie," MacLeod said quietly.   
  


"And having killed your student, you turned to me for judgment," Methos said.

Not judgment, MacLeod realized. He'd already made his own judgement. He'd turned to Methos for punishment, plain and simple. 

"Please," MacLeod had whispered. His voice had been hoarse as he held the katana out to Methos, begging for death.   
  


And Methos had turned his back on the man who was the best friend he'd ever had. "Absolutely not," he'd said.

"And when I refused to judge you," Methos said, "you judged yourself." He remembered the shock he'd felt at Methos' words, remembered protesting, remembered Methos' voice, calm and implacable as ever. 

"I said that I wouldn't judge you, and I didn't."   
  


"But I killed him," Mac had stuttered. "I killed my own student."   
  


"And you found yourself guilty of the crime and gave yourself the same sentence you'd imposed on Warren Cochrane--life with the knowledge of what you'd done, never to be forgotten or forgiven."

He remembered turning his back on Methos at that moment, and the fact that the street lamps had come on, their reflections rippling in the water of the Seine when he turned back. Methos had risen, too, and had been standing with his hands shoved casually in his jeans pockets, elbows pushing his coat back in a familiar posture. Mac had swallowed tears, finally asking in a strained voice, "Was I wrong?"   
  


"Richie's death was an accident, Mac," Methos had said quietly. "At some level you have to know that."   
  


Yes, he'd known. He just hadn't forgiven himself yet, and Methos had known that, too. He remembered staring at Methos, standing there, so still in that maddening way of his, realizing that Methos understood the helplessness, the frustration, the choking fury he sometimes felt, realizing what he'd done. Methos understood the need to cry to heaven, even when heaven held no answer, and--somehow--knowing that had helped at least a little.   
  


"Why'd you kill Cochrane?" MacLeod had asked, and he remembered the play of emotions across the old man's face as he'd considered and rejected several answers before replying. Finally, he'd shrugged and said simply, "Because it had to be done." Behind the words, though, there had been another answer, and Mac tasted tears, remembering what Methos hadn't said: "Because I wasn't sure you could bear the consequences of having to do it yourself."   
  


"You cannot fight my battles for me, MacLeod," he'd once said. And yet it seemed that Methos had, to all intents and purposes, accepted the responsibility for fighting some of MacLeod's battles. "Because I wasn't sure you could bear the consequences." As if the burdens MacLeod already had to carry might be too great for him to bear.   
  


When he was a boy, Mary MacLeod had seen he'd learned his scriptures, and while he'd strayed often enough from the path, they'd always stayed with him. "Bear ye one another's burdens," the apostle Paul had said--something MacLeod had taken literally as the clan chieftain's son. And there was another scripture he'd often heard his mother quote, from Matthew: "Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls."   
  


Rest, he thought. There was something Selkirk had written, too, something about a season of rest: 

How fleet is a glance of the mind!   
Compared with the speed of its flight, the tempest itself lags behind . . .   
When I think of my own native land, in a moment I seem to be there;   
But, alas! recollection at hand soon hurries me back to despair.   
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, the beast is laid down in his lair;   
Even here is a season of rest, and I to my cabin repair.   
There's mercy in every place; and mercy--encouraging thought!--   
Gives even affliction a grace, and reconciles man to his lot.   
The sea-fowl is gone to her nest, the beast is laid down in his lair;   
Even here is a season of rest, and I to my cabin repair.

And I to my cabin repair, he thought wryly. Well, he certainly had enough repairs to keep him busy for awhile, though it wasn't exactly what Selkirk had in mind. Staring up at the stars for another moment, he listened to the sound of the ocean, and to the wind among the island trees. It had grown colder, he realized, and he would be more comfortable in the boat's cabin than out of it tonight, even with the decks tilted at a crazy angle. It meant he'd be sleeping on what he was accustomed to thinking of as a cabin bulkhead, of course, but there you were. Come morning and the sun, he would set to work, finding and repairing whatever leaks there were in the hull. And then, when Absolution was whole again, he'd head south and west for Australia, following the currents and the trade winds. From Sydney, it would be easy enough to catch a flight for Paris and home.   
  


Once made, the decision felt right. There was, he thought, always plenty of time to sail around the world. He smiled. Maybe he'd take Rainart with him in a few more years. Hell--you never knew. Maybe he could talk Methos into coming along.   


**Chapter Thirty-one**

**October 1999**

In the end, Methos wound up returning to Panama City, with plans to fly either to Sydney or Los Angeles and then on to Paris, whichever could be arranged first. 

Amanda had kissed his mouth and said, "That's for MacLeod if and when you find him. I'll understand if you prefer to wait until I can give it to him myself." He'd ducked his head, chuckling, and she'd caught his face between the palms of her hands, her eyes searching his face. She kissed him gently a second time. When they parted, her eyes met his. "That one's for you," she'd said, "so you'll remember there are people here who love you and miss you."   
  


He'd smiled. "I'll remember," he'd said.

In time, Methos supposed, MacLeod would remember, too, and he'd return to Paris. Funny, how hard it was these days to imagine Paris without MacLeod, though Methos had lived there off and on for centuries long before the Highlander was born. The point was, he'd grown attached, though a part of him resisted the idea as impractical. He'd grown attached to Duncan MacLeod, and to Joe Dawson, and, yes, to Amanda as well, not to mention Amy Thomas and Nick Wolfe. He had, in effect, become part of a family group of sorts--a clan, he thought, not even resisting the idea. True, he lived on the periphery of it, coming and going as he chose, but he was doubtless an accepted member of the group. What was more, he had responsibilities, a fact that had come as a bit of a surprise, but there was no other way to describe what he'd been doing for the past year. MacLeod had left Paris, and Methos had been pulled into the center of things by the vacuum caused by Mac's absence. He'd become responsible for Mac's barge, responsible for keeping his friends safe, responsible for a student--   
  


Now there was a thought. Picking up his duffel bag and moving along with the line of passengers disembarking from the Galapagos, Methos couldn't help but shake his head. What in the world had he been thinking to take on a student? Another student, to be truthful, since there was no sense in denying the fact that he thought of MacLeod as his student as well. Methos smiled, imagining Nick Wolfe and Duncan MacLeod both staking out territory around Amanda. It certainly did raise some interesting possibilities. And there was Joe, of course. Whatever passed between them, Methos could not imagine absenting himself from Joe Dawson's life. Real friends were simply too rare, in his experience, to choose to deliberately isolate himself from those he had. And for the same reason, he couldn't imagine that MacLeod would let Joe Dawson grow old without his being there.   
  


No. In time MacLeod would return home to his friends, but pursuing him into the Pacific on nothing more than a hunch was foolish in the extreme, and Methos had given up foolishness long ago. Well, for the most part, anyway.   
  


"Senor Adam Pierson?" the customs agent asked as he handed over his passport.   
  


"Yes," Methos replied without really thinking about it. It was his last port of call on this little adventure, and he was looking forward to being home. Practically speaking, he thought, there was no reason he couldn't be back in Paris this time tomorrow.   
  


"One moment, sir," the customs agent said.   
  


He almost missed it, but then his radar kicked in. Not his Immortal radar--merely the sense that there was something not quite right, not quite--   
  


"Senor Pierson, I'm Lieutenant Acar, of the Panama police. This is Detective Gabriel Delmar, with the Rio de Janeiro police, and his partner, Detective Basilio." Identification was proffered for his inspection, and he ran his eyes over their badges before lifting his eyes to meet theirs. There was, of course, only one possible reason for police to come looking for him from Rio.   
  


"Yes?"   
  


They took him out of the line of passengers and gestured for him to join them nearer the windows, where two uniformed police officers were visible.   
  


"You are wanted for questioning, sir, in the deaths of Juan Bartolo and Ernesta Vincente, two Brazilian citizens. These officers have extradition papers requiring your release into their custody for transport to Rio de Janeiro." Acar unfolded a sheaf of papers and offered them for his inspection as well, asking, "Do you read Spanish?"   
  


"Yes, I do," Methos said, "but I'll take your word for it. You said 'requiring my release,' " he said. "Does that mean I'm in your custody and not theirs?"   
  


"It does, sir," Acar said.   
  


Time, Methos' inner voice prompted. When in doubt stall for time. Unfortunately, there wasn't really all that much doubt, was there? And no matter how well he'd cleaned his sword this last time, it was almost a given that modern forensics technology would turn up something, wasn't it? "I'll want my attorney," Methos said, feeling the shape of the broadsword just touching his left hip. "He's in Europe." And there was a very sharp main gauche in its own sheath, also within easy reach inside his coat.   
  


"You're a British citizen?" Acar asked.   
  


Well, he'd traveled under a British passport for most of the last half century, but he wasn't going to quibble at this point. "Yes."   
  


"I can arrange for an attorney locally, if you'd like, to represent you until you arrange counsel of your own choice."   
  


Methos glanced at Delmar and Basilio, thinking that policemen really did look alike the world over. And what was more, they looked pretty much alike from one century to the next. In fact, Delmar put him in mind of a certain Roman centurion, although he couldn't think of the man's name at the moment. Must be something about the job that attracted a certain type of person. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said. "I think a local attorney is an excellent idea. At best, I would think my own attorney will need a day or two to get here."   
  


"To Rio," Basilio said. "It would be advisable for your attorney to meet you in Rio."   
  


Methos raised an eyebrow at Acar, who shrugged. "Let's arrange counsel first," Acar said. "Then you can fight it out in front of a judge. We will, of course, have to search you--"   
  


Methos smiled. He'd been expecting that.   


**Chapter Thirty-two**

**October 1999**

The first morning after deliberately beaching himself at Floreana island, MacLeod woke to the calling of gulls and the lapping of the water against Absolution's hull. After a makeshift breakfast his first task was to begin bailing--again. The job was made easier by the simple expedience of opening the portholes and pitching water through them onto the deck, where it washed downhill with the aid of gravity. When he'd bailed as much as he could bear to for the moment, he went topside and forward, where he lowered himself onto the wet beach and began a minute and heart wrenching inspection of the hull. His encounter with the floating redwood could be read in the scratched and scraped under-timbers, and if he was interested in leaks, he didn't have to go far to find them.   
  


The garboard strake on the port side had sprung at the stem, exposing the cement-filled bilge. Caulking had worked out of the seams, exposing a fissure the size of his thumb here and there, leaving no doubt, then, where the seepage had come from that had filled the bilge for days and weeks on end. Beyond that, though, the rudderpost had been wrenched from its keel seat, and a few planks seemed disturbed where they fitted into the sternpost and stem. Probing deeper, he could only stand and stare at the propeller, high and dry as it was; more than one flange was bent, and it would take more than a bit of work to fix it.   
  


Still, it could be fixed. In fact, all the faults he'd noted could be remedied with patience, hard work, and time. And if there was one thing he had plenty of, it was time.   
  


Two and a half weeks later he'd spent more hours than he cared to count knee-deep in water, wading in the shallows that lapped at Absolution's hull. At low tide, when the water was only inches deep about the boat, he worked first at reseating planks, dressed in an old blue shirt and a pair of cut-offs with a hammer thrust into the waistband and a plastic tub of nails his constant companion. There was caulking to be done, too, in every gap and scratch, no matter how small; after several days his feet were white and water-wrinkled from being constantly soaked in salt water, and a semi-permanent salt crust had formed a white waterline about his shins.   
  


The garboard planks had to be ripped off completely, and the old screw holes in both the strake and keel plugged and then drilled anew; that done, he rescrewed them more securely than before. The seams he caulked, using a special caulking cotton he'd brought along; a screwdriver did duty as a caulking iron, and then the seams were covered over with lead patching, puttied, and painted over all. Likewise, a lead patch went down each side of the stem, overlapping where the planks joined in, and, two days later, the same job was completed on the stern.   
  


Sometime about the middle of the second week a Portuguese fishing boat had shown up, and he'd had company for a day or two, and a welcome respite from both his solitude and his single-handed repair job. A few of the crew had happily lent him a hand with repairs to the propeller, and with their help the rudderpost was reset and the damaged propeller blades were hammered plumb. Thanks to their help, what would have taken him a day took just a few hours. They celebrated that night with a bonfire on the beach and crabs rounded up in the shallows; unavoidably, it put MacLeod in mind of the launching celebration at Betty Bannen's almost a year ago. The next day Roldana's captain offered him a lift just in case he'd changed his mind, but they were headed north, and he wasn't. He thanked them for their help and ready friendship and waved them off from shore as they set out, leaving him behind and to his work again. Their parting gift had been two dozen industrial-sized cans of ham and lima beans and an assortment of other things spared with kindness and generosity out of their admiration of his determination to complete on his own the voyage he'd begun so long ago.   
  


Daily the sea marched up the beach, encircling Absolution and lifting it in a gentle reminder that she was meant to be afloat and not sitting with her bow pointed desolately toward a jungle. Daily MacLeod kept to his work, and daily Absolution looked more and more like the boat she was meant to be. There came a day when she lifted so buoyantly he hooked up the winch and, in a by-now-familiar routine, hauled her the dozen or so feet to deeper water so she could float free. That done, he threw out the anchor for the first time since landing, and as he stood guard over the bilge not even a trickle came in. It was, needless to say, a day he noted in his ship's log with considerable pleasure.   
  


Since the weather was good, he'd been bunking on the sand high up on the beach, under a lean-to rigged from his stay sail and oars. With Absolution afloat again, he transferred his gear back on board and took up residency again in the cabin he'd come to think of as home. Whether on board or on the beach, though, for hours on end he staked nets out to do his fishing for him while he worked on the boat, and whatever he hauled in beyond the day's needs he cleaned and hung to dry for the voyage ahead. That, along with the bananas and mangos growing on the edge of the jungle made for ready meals. Exploring a bit, he also found avocados and green drinking coconuts, and still later papayas; as his stay on the island was plainly coming to an end, he spent two days more gathering fresh fruits and vegetables from the jungle to restock his larder, along with a good stock of coconuts, since everything else would obviously spoil after little more than a week without a refrigerator at hand.   
  


On what he figured was his last two days on the island he restocked his fresh water stores and cut as many green bananas as would reasonably fit in the forward cabin. That done, he had only to check his standing and running gear. Rigging a bosun's chair to the main halyard that last day, he hoisted himself aloft, and by midafternoon he had painted the 35-foot mast and tightened the screws in her slide. He painted the boom and overhauled the main boom blocks as well, finally greasing the shafts. By evening, everything was shipshape, not counting a few bits and pieces he figured he could work on during his "off watch" hours in the days ahead.   
  


Just before sunset, MacLeod treated himself to a soap and fresh water bath under the shower of a waterfall that washed out of the jungle just a few minutes' walk inland, enjoying the chill and splash; after a bit, he floated out on his back and let his mind drift into a familiar, relaxing meditation routine. Emerging clean and refreshed on the beach, he stood a moment, looking at his boat, silhouetted against the darkening horizon. Absolution rode at anchor, buoyant and confident again, her sails down and her mast reaching for the sky above. Some 7,000 miles lay between him and Australia, and Absolution was as ready to go to sea as she ever would be.   
  


At high tide, he hauled in the anchor and raised his sails; a wind from the east and did the rest.

**********

Continued in Part 4


End file.
